Part of me wished Michael wouldn’t reach any of his informants. Between his impromptu assignments and my long hours on the job, we’d rarely spent a weekend together this summer. Ironically, we were both free this weekend. I was going to suggest we drive to Quebec City to catch the New France Festival where hundreds of performers dressed in period garb from the 17th and 18th centuries. We loved the theater, but the sampling of local food products alone would have enticed Michael to go. This evening’s newscast changed everything.
Another part of me worried about Michael’s safety. With his assignments came potential danger. Like the time he’d supplied local police teams with information leading to the arrest of Hells Angels members involved in a drug-trafficking ring. His newspaper coverage of the event had won widespread recognition—even earned several awards. Meanwhile he’d received death threats, though it hadn’t restricted his efforts. Nothing deters crime fighters from doing their job.
I couldn’t deny that I relished the tidbits of information Michael shared with me. Though I enjoyed my job as a ghostwriter, I secretly wished I could give him a hand with his.
Michael was still working through his contact list.
“Take me with you,” I said to him.
He looked at me. “What?”
“I can translate for your French-speaking informants. My French is way better than yours.”
He shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
“I helped you before—with Willie.” We’d met with his informant in a Montreal subway station to pursue a lead regarding an ex-con’s activities.
“It was in a public place. Little to no risk.”
I persisted. “Think about it, Michael. There are lots of advantages.”
“Name one.”
“Well, to begin with, you know you can trust me.”
“True.” He nodded. “And…?”
“I’m offering last-minute availability for your meetings with informants—something no other translator can do.”
“True again.” A flicker danced in his blue eyes. I could tell he was warming up to the idea. “What else?”
Oh, hell. I was running out of reasons. I gave it my best shot. “I love you, and if anything should ever happen to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I wasn’t surprised when he agreed. He’d saved my life when some nut murdered my husband two years earlier and then came after me. Mutual trust had shaped our relationship then and we've been together ever since.
I listened now as Michael succeeded in contacting one of his sources. In broken French, he asked “Claude” if he could meet with him as soon as possible. “Hello? Hello?” He stared at me. “The guy hung up.”
“I don’t blame him. He’s probably afraid to talk.”
He nodded. “We’ll wait till things cool down.”
And so we did.
It was just as well, given my eleventh-hour assignment from Bradford Publishing. As my main supplier of ghostwriting projects, they provided my bread-and-butter revenue, so I couldn’t exactly turn down the job. This latest project involved an entrepreneur named Gary Stilt who needed a series of pamphlets for a Montreal exhibition on Canadian mining exploration. My contribution entailed researching the topic and preparing the contents for the handouts.
Gary’s job as investment dealer required extensive traveling, so we couldn’t get together during normal working hours. Considering the fee I was charging him for the rush job, I couldn’t complain about meeting with him on the weekend.
His condo had a spectacular view of the Montreal harbor and visiting boats in the distance. The living room looked as if an interior decorator had a hand in choosing the modern furnishings and accessories. In glaring contrast was the gargantuan pattern of red and yellow flowers on Gary’s shirt. Why did heavyset guys wear loud prints that only emphasized their ample size?
We spent Saturday afternoon going over the topics for the pamphlets Gary intended to distribute at the mining convention. The exhibition would be held at Place Bonaventure in October and was expected to bring together investors, prospectors, geologists, and service providers—key players in the development of Quebec's mining industry.
“Last year, the convention assembled more than than 2,000 delegates and 200 exhibitors.” A smile stretched across Gary’s broad face, as if to suggest he’d contributed singlehandedly to the success of that event. “The province of Quebec has tremendous mining potential. The resources here are ripe for the picking." He chuckled.
“Sounds like you enjoy your work."
"I certainly do,” Gary said. “I've been in the investment business for more than twenty years. That’s how I got these.” He ran his fingers along graying temples and chuckled again. “Kidding aside, I can honestly say this is the most exciting investment phase I’ve experienced so far. The mining business is such a lucrative trade."
Lucrative, no doubt, but exciting? Unless you drooled over the prospect of attending the convention with other like-minded enthusiasts, the information on mining investments was pretty dry stuff—the sort of reading material guaranteed to put any disinterested party to sleep.
While Gary droned on about the elements he wanted for the proposed pamphlets, I felt my eyelids getting heavy. Luckily, the perked coffee he served prevented me from dozing off.
I glanced at his classy Prada briefcase resting on the coffee table. The tiny medallion on its leather surface sported the designer logo. Given Gary’s taste in clothes, I assumed the briefcase was a gift. He hadn’t zipped it open since I’d arrived but had laid out a pile of reference materials on the table instead.
After we’d set a tentative time for our next meeting, Gary asked me to drop him off at the marina bordering Victoria Pier. He was meeting friends at a boat party. It was a short drive to the Old Port, so I agreed. As we got up to leave, Gary grabbed his briefcase.
Why lug a briefcase to a party? I grimaced at the back of his wild floral shirt.
The Old Port was buzzing with activity. No matter what the season, there was always something happening in this historic venue. Visitors were now entering the harbor grounds on foot and by car to view the latest IMAX feature in the Montreal Science Centre, see the interactive exhibits, or attend cultural events. Traffic was stop and go as drivers avoided pedestrians and edged toward the parking lot bordering the marina.
“No need to park,” said Gary to me. "I’ll get out here. Thanks, Megan. We’ll keep in touch.” He got out and disappeared into the crowd.
I figured I might as well make good use of my trip and check out the new beach on the pier. I hadn’t been to this three-acre getaway since it opened this year.
I got lucky and found a parking space. I walked to the inner edge of the lot and stood by the rails to survey the scene below. At the foot of the Montreal Clock Tower built in 1919 sat the modern urban beach—replete with sand, chairs, turquoise parasols, and a bar. The beach spanned the tip of the pier and angled inward between the parking lot and the marina.
Loud rhythmic music from a sound system on the beach filled the air. Within the sandy strip, people dressed in colorful shorts and tops danced to the fab beat—an indication the party was in full swing. Gary and his flamboyant shirt would have fit in well here.
I glanced around. In the distance, Jacques Cartier Bridge stretched across the St. Lawrence River from the island of Montreal to Longueuil, one of the South Shore suburbs of Greater Montreal. Michael and I had recently stood on that bridge with thousands of spectators to watch the display of the international fireworks competition held at La Ronde on nearby St. Helen’s Island. The event had marked the two-year anniversary of our relationship.
To my left on Jacques Cartier Pier, Cirque du Soleil’s blue-and-yellow striped tents rose against the skyline. Michael and I had seen the famous troupe’s shows a couple of times. The rooftop-aerial-acrobats boasted jaw-dropping performances that were still fresh in my mind.
Closer at hand, the marina was holding a boat party where hundreds o
f yachts were docked and patrons filled the walkways. I assumed this was the party Gary was attending.
I checked my watch. It was almost six o’clock. I wondered if Michael had plans for dinner or if he was still working on a crime article for The Montreal Gazette. Neither of us had had time to pick up groceries this week, so it meant another night of eating out or ordering in. If I hurried, I might be able to pick up a roasted chicken at the local grocery.
I got back in the car and started the engine. Nothing happened. I checked the gas gauge. It was half-full. What the hell? I tried a few more times with the same dismal result. I hated to think that my trusty 98 Nissan Altima—with less than fifty thousand miles on it—might well have made its last trip.
I dug into my handbag for the phone. It had no signal. Damn it! I left Michael a text message as to my whereabouts. It might reach him after I leave the area. I slipped the phone back into my handbag. In the meantime, I’d have to trudge through the swarms of visitors back to De la Commune Street to wave down a taxi.
A thump startled me as a man was jostled onto my car and his sunglasses clanked onto the hood. Our eyes met and I gasped. I immediately recognized Daniel Plouffe—right down to the scar on his left cheek.
Was it my imagination?
No. There was no denying it. It was the same man I’d seen in the police mug shot on TV. He broke his gaze and hastily put his sunglasses back on before lumbering off.
My heart pounded. My hands shook as I fumbled for a pen and paper in my handbag. I scribbled a note to alert the ticket police that my car was out of order and left it on the dashboard. The next note I wrote was to Michael: Following Daniel P. I placed it on the passenger seat.
I opened the glove compartment and took out my digital camera, hoping it still had battery life. I grabbed my handbag and rushed out to shadow my target.
Timely Escape (A Short Story) Page 2